


Regret

by jamieherondxle



Category: The Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare, The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 11:27:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18619717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamieherondxle/pseuds/jamieherondxle
Summary: A TLH Jordelia one-shot, inspired by Cassie's post that Cordelia reads to James.





	Regret

There was something illicit about this, Cordelia thought.

She could not for the life of her recall what exactly she had just read.

It was perhaps the proximity, she thought. Being so close to James, sitting beside his bed, handling one of his books. The greenish fabric of the hardback was beginning to fade; pages yellowing, the edges furred. This was, in any other circumstance, prohibited, unallowed; this was, in any other circumstance, utterly unreal: an unmarried woman, and an unmarried man, present in the same bedchamber. James, in his own bed. This close.

This close.

If she turned her head just so, she would see — she had done it ten times, already — fanned-out, ink-black lashes cast down against a milky pallor of skin. There was even the faintest tracery of vein just over his closed, slightly fluttering lids. She felt absurdly gleeful. How many times had she dreamt of such a scene like this? Whenever else would this moment like this arise?

She imagined Lucie, suddenly, her expression disapproving and puzzled. No. This was something she could not confess to Lucie. Her brother was scandalously handsome, yes, anyone could see that; but she would be horrified, surely, to discover her own parabatai’s affection ran so deep: the things that occupied her mind.

What would the ends of those lashes feel like, she thought, brushed against the tip of her finger? Her imagination vaulted, leaping over to other, more thrilling possibilities, scudding fast as clouds: pressing a light, delicate kiss to each lid.

James, in Cordelia’s mind, was painted on a daytime canvases of motion against murky London sunlight: sauntering around a drawing room, slinging on a dark coat, feet up on some sofa or chaise longe; twirling a pistol mid-air; grinning wickedly at Matthew. This was unprecedented, James, alone in his bed chamber, and she, alone with him. Her mind, suddenly, supplied the word for her, the thing she was hesitant to give form to: intimate. That is what this scene was. And unlike all those other times she had ever been close to James, now there was not a single soul to watch them.

Cordelia could hear his slow, deep breathing; every little twitch and shift she detected against the heavy sheets piled on top of him. Were his feet bare, she wondered? Though perhaps, given his injury, he was merely wearing a nightshirt—

She read the next few lines louder, with renewed fervour. _Concentrate. By the angel._ She was reading Thomas Hardy, which, in hindsight, she wished she had not picked from the leaning stack of books on his bedside table. She would much rather it had been something more decorous and turgid like Dickens, rather than this splayed, sensuous prose, like a split-open fruit. Indecent, people said. She could see why. Of course a Herondale would like something like this. The heat in her cheeks, the trilling in her chest, intensified.

James shifted, a troubled noise emanating from him. Cordelia’s watched him, pausing again, noticing that his cheeks had pinkened to a sleepy, soft colour; his brows were furrowed, his mouth sad, a darkening shadow all around his jaw. She thought, some woman, some day, will wake up to this sight every morning.

Cordelia felt a surge of emotion, something searing hot and bursting, almost like rage, sweeping all the way up through her body, as she gazed at him. She had this thing before; she knew it well. But it was getting worse, she thought; she felt a constriction in her throat, as if she could hardly breathe. _I had better leave before I do something I shall regret._

Trying to disguise the sound, she inhaled deeply, as far as her stays would allow her, and then simultaneously snapped the book shut and stood, gathering her skirts.

There was a quick, shocked gasp from beside her.

“Sorry,” She said, “I did not mean to wake you.”

His voice was a breath, croaking and broken. “Daisy?”

“Yes.”

He coughed slightly, his voice a little clearer. “What are you doing?”

His eyes, as she watched him, were bleary and half-open. “I…” What had she been doing? “I was reading.” _To you_ , she added, internally.

“Are you leaving?” His voice hitched a little.

Her mouth formed an answer that she could not articulate. She sat back down. “I was stretching,” She said, giving him a tight smile. “What were you dreaming of?”

His gaze moved to the quilt cover. “I have horrible dreams sometimes.”

Cordelia hardly knew what to say. Would it be rude to enquire? “So do I.” She said.

“Really?” His tone was incredulous. He looked back at her, and held her gaze.

“Yes. As my father says, there is no better actor in this world than woman.”

James’ frown deepened. “Yes,” he said, eventually. “I think your father is right.”

She knew they were no longer talking of herself anymore. “You were dreaming of Grace. Would you like to talk about it?” She felt something in herself deflating, turning cold.

He shook his head. “Talking is of no use. It is as if…” He trailed off, a little sigh escaping him, “she is lodged in my mind, dug in somewhere I can’t find. And I have tried and tried but I…sometimes I think, in a year, in two, or three, will it still be like this? This incessant…will it be even worse? I swear by the angel,” he looked at her, something in his expression suddenly fierce, “I will go mad. I already feel it, sometimes. Possessed. I look at a seraph blade and wish I could plunge it straight into my head, if only I could cut her out with it, I would in an instant.”

She let her breath go. “Jamie.” _Damn it all to hell_ , she thought, and she leant down to kneel beside his bed, to grasp his hand. She brought it up to her mouth, pressing a desperate kiss onto the back of his hand. “Jamie, please. Please.” She did not know what she was begging for; she did not know why there were tears, suddenly, filling her eyes.

“I am sorry, Daisy, pretend I never said anything—“

“No, no, Jamie, you— we will find some way,” She vowed to him, two cold, wet tears running down each cheek. “We will.”

He stared down at her and whispered, “I feel it is hopeless.”

“Don’t say that.”

He gave her a weak smile. “You’re right. You are so good,” He stroked back her hair from her face. “I’m sure we do not deserve you.”

 _Good._ She thought, _that’s what I am to him. Good._ Her tears streamed faster. His fingers moved to brush them away, but she arrested his hand, and brought it to her mouth, proceeding to blanket it over in kisses, just as she had imagined thousands of times — into his wrist, in his palm, over his fingers.

She stopped. Recoiled. Swallowed. She felt like she had that time when she was a little girl and she had picked up her mother’s most favourite and expensive vase from Tehran. Inevitably, it had slipped through her fingers and shattered disastrously into fragments all over the tiled floor, making such an explosive sound that surely the entire house had heard it. She remembered looking up to find her mother’s eyes on her; the deep chill that ran through her as she met her eyes. _This is it. This is regret_. There was no undoing this, now.

She cringed at the shock in his voice. “Daisy?”

“I’m afraid I must go.” She hastily dropped his hand and got to her feet. “I feel — rather — rather ill.” It was the only thing she could think to say.

She dashed out the room, feeling James’ gaze piercing the back of her, searching, dumbfounded. The moment she escaped, she threw herself against the nearest wall, savouring the fresh air, closing her eyes, biting down viciously on her lip. _How could you be so stupid?_

“Cordy?” She heard Lucie’s voice to her right. Where had she come from? Cordelia’s eyes flew open. “Are you…” She saw her expression become puzzled. “Why are you out of breath?” She saw her parabatai’s eyes flick to the door behind her — her brother’s room — and flick back to her.

“I feel unwell, suddenly. I have no idea why,” A breathy sound left her.

Lucie smiled. “Come with me.”


End file.
